Red Dragon - Thomas Harris [109]
“There's much . . . for you to dread. From . . . from my own lips you'll learn a little more to dread.”
A pause before the awful screaming. Worse, the blubbering lipless cry, “You goddanned astard you romised.”
Graham put his head between his knees until the bright spots stopped dancing in front of his eyes. He opened his mouth and breathed deep.
An hour passed before he could listen to it again.
He took the recorder into the jury room and tried to listen there. Too close. He left the tape recorder turning and went back into the courtroom. He could hear through the open door.
“I have had a great privilege . . .”
Someone was at the courtroom door. Graham recognized the young clerk from the Chicago FBI office and motioned for him to come in.
“A letter came for you,” the clerk said. “Mr. Chester sent me with it. He told me to be sure and say the postal inspector fluoroscoped it.”
The clerk pulled the letter out of his breast pocket. Heavy mauve stationery. Graham hoped it was from Molly.
“It's stamped, see?”
“Thank you.”
“Also it's payday.” The clerk handed him his check. On the tape, Freddy screamed.
The young man flinched.
“Sorry,” Graham said.
“I don't see how you stand it,” the young man said.
“Go home,” Graham said.
He sat in the jury box to read his letter. He wanted some relief. The letter was from Dr. Hannibal Lecter.
Dear Will,
A brief note of congratulations for the job you did on Mr. Lounds. I admired it enormously. What a cunning boy you are!
Mr. Lounds often offended me with his ignorant drivel, but he did enlighten me on one thing - your confinement in the mental hospital. My inept attorney should have brought that out in court, but never mind.
You know, Will, you worry too much. You'd be so much more comfortable if you relaxed with yourself.
We don't invent our natures, Will; they're issued to us along with our lungs and pancreas and everything else. Why fight it?
I want to help you, Will, and I'd like to start by asking you this: When you were so depressed after you shot Mr. Ganett Jacob Hobbs to death, it wasn't the act that got you down, was it? Really, didn't you feel so bad because killing him felt so good?
Think about it, but don't worry about it. Why shouldn't it feel good? It must feel good to God - He does it all the time, and are we not made in His image?
You may have noticed in the paper yesterday, God dropped a church roof on thirtyfour of His worshipers in Texas Wednesday night - just as they were groveling through a hymn. Don't you think that felt good?
Thirtyfour. He'd let you have Hobbs.
He got 160 Filipinos in one plane crash last week - He'll let you have measly Hobbs. He won't begrudge you one measly murder. Two now. That's all right.
Watch the papers. God always stays ahead.
Best,
Hannibal Lecter, M.D.
Graham knew that Lecter was dead wrong about Hobbs, but for a halfsecond he wondered if Lecter might be a little bit right in the case of Freddy Lounds. The enemy inside Graham agreed with any accusation.
He had put his hand on Freddy's shoulder in the Tattler photograph to establish that he really had told Freddy those insulting things about the Dragon. Or had he wanted to put Freddy at risk, just a little? He wondered.
The certain knowledge that he would not knowingly miss a chance at the Dragon reprieved him.
“I'm just about worn out with you crazy sons of bitches,” Graham said aloud.
He wanted a break. He called Molly, but no one answered the telephone at Willy's grandparents' house. “Probably out in their damned motorhome,” he mumbled.
He went out for coffee, partly to assure himself that he was not hiding in the jury room.
In the window of a jewelry store he saw a delicate antique gold bracelet. It cost him most of his paycheck. He had it wrapped and stamped for mailing. Only when he was sure he was alone at the mail drop did he address it to Molly in Oregon. Graham did not realize, as Molly did, that he gave presents when he was angry.
He didn't want to go back to his jury room and work, but he had to. The thought of Valerie Leeds spurred